


I'm going home, back to the place where I belong

by Bioluminescent



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, as according to my friend, attempted suicide, return!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminescent/pseuds/Bioluminescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is depressed and Mycroft intervenes.</p><p>OR</p><p>Sherlock returns and stuff happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm going home, back to the place where I belong

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Suicidal thoughts and attempted suicide
> 
> Random little feel fest I vomited out after randomly listening to songs that made me think of a depressed John.
> 
> Once again no beta but WriteThroughTheNight who read this for me.

How long do you think John can hold together, brother?  
-MH

He is not going to be well, no matter what you may think Sherlock.  
-MH

You said it yourself multiple times to him. People do not observe.  
-MH

He is too fragile to handle this Sherlock.  
-MH

~^~^~^~

Nothing has changed in the front as Sherlock opens the door, knowing that Mrs. Hudson is out on a rather useless date. As he steps in, his coat flapping in the cold breeze, he shivers at the thought of John coming home each day into this harsh little space. But that does not matter to him as he ascends the seventeen steps.

Seventeen steps closer to John.

Seventeen steps later, and Sherlock is standing in the doorway, staring in horror at John.

He is asleep in his chair, his face haggard and grey, curled up with Sherlock's scarf wrapped around his shoulders. He sleeps restlessly, heart rate up, fingers twitching as he whimpers in the back of his throat, clearly having a nightmare. Immediately, Sherlock is filled with an emotion that he has just recently become acquaintances with. Doubt.

Maybe he shouldn't have come back, maybe he should have listened to John, maybe he shouldn't have jumped, maybe he should have thought better of coming back.

But he can't resist the urge to circle around John to get a better look, a better idea to see how John is coping. It is not what he expects of his blogger.

He can clearly see where John has clenched his fists in his hair, his knuckles raw from punching the walls in an attempt to feel less numb. Deep wrinkles are harsh grooves in the soft light, and it seems to Sherlock (even though he knows it is false, these are just lines from grief and mourning) that John has aged decades since he jumped off Bart's.

All of that disappears when Sherlock spots the gun.

Sherlock knew John always kept the gun clean and regulation perfect, but he has never seen it out of John's room other than for a case. Yet there it sits, next to his skull, a full clip in and close enough to grab. The amount of shine on the grip shows that John has been handling it quite a lot recently, something that worries Sherlock before he finally puts it all together.

His scarf, the handling of the gun, the flat unchanged, cut ties from the Yard, more yelling at Mrs. Hudson, Molly's coldness and Mycroft's texts. John is thinking about committing suicide.

A rustle in the chair and Sherlock spins around, the words already forming at his mouth before they whither and die completely on his tongue.

John stares at him blankly, unresponsive and flat. There is no emotion on his face at the sight of Sherlock other than a lip curled in disgust. "And I had thought that this wasn't going to happen again, then you come back around."

"John-"

"I just knew you couldn't resist coming back and torturing me again could you? No, you just had to come back and taunt me. You even put the blood back on, congratulations." The words fall harsh and hard from John's mouth, his sneer not even reaching his eyes. "Well you have done a good job for this, but I do believe you've missed something."

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, to interrupt John, to do _something_ , before John moves.

He reaches up and behind him, grasping the gun firmly in one hand. The capable hands of a doctor turn it in his lap before chambering a round with a harsh click.

"You thought you could best me with this you foul thing, but I can do one better."

Frozen, Sherlock watches as John puts the gun to his head.

John chuckles darkly, his eyes closing.

"This is what people do, isn't it?"

~^~^~^~

Sherlock leaps forward and rips the gun out of Johns hand, firing the round into the wall and ejecting the clip before hurling the gun into the kitchen. He stands in front of John, his fists clenching before he reaches forward and puts his hands on John's shoulders. Absently he notes that John has lost ten pounds before shaking him.

"Stop it. Stop this thing that you have put yourself into. Stop." Sherlock ignores it as his voice cracks on the last word.

John stares at him before blinking slowly. He squints and gives a little shake of his head before reaching out with one hand.

Gently, almost reverently, he puts his fingertips to Sherlock's chest, right above his heart, before placing his palm against it. Sherlock watches as John's eyes fill with hope, his mouth opening.

"Please god, tell me it's true."

Sherlock covers John's hand with his own. "It's true."

With a gasp, John crumples out of the chair, Sherlock going down with him as he feels arms clamp down around his waist, a soft head of hair landing on his collarbone.

Words almost too soft to hear, John speaks.

"I had thought I was seeing things again. Because, after that night, I thought I would always see you in the crowds, or the store, or in here. I was going crazy and everyone knew it. They just didn't want to tell me." John shivers and Sherlock pulls him impossibly closer, nosing at the top of John's head. "But I knew."

To Sherlock's shock, he feels a cold wetness on his collarbone, and for a moment he thinks that John is bleeding out on him (ridiculous really, he should know better). It takes a long talk with John many years later to realize that this was a form of sentiment. He jerks, and goes to push John away to see him and check his head, but John clings tighter with a sob ripping itself from his chest wetly.

Freezing, Sherlock stays still as John sobs again, rubbing his face into Sherlock's shoulder as if he can burrow in there, his tears running more freely. Slowly, so slowly it seems like forever, Sherlock lowers his arms around his shaking blogger and hugs him back. As he feels John relaxing, never stopping in his outburst of grief, he pulls him onto his lap, easily getting John to stay as he flails at the unexpected movement.

But he returns to crying, clenching his fists in the back of Sherlock's purple shirt. It can't really even be classified as crying really, there are tears, but it is more howling than anything, a scream to the world about the utter betrayal and hurt he is feeling at that moment, but also the love and contentment.

However long it is after, time means nothing but the feeling of a warm body supposed to be dead clenched to show proof of its existence, John composes himself as Sherlock stumbles over forming words, a tear or two running down his cheeks. With a deep breath he pulls back, away from Sherlock, and he almost whines at the loss of warmth before John speaks.

"Never, do you understand, _never_ do that to me again Sherlock. Never." Sherlock leans over John and puts their foreheads together, staring at John's eyelids.

"John, I may be a fool to how people act towards each other, and you may think that this is an empty promise I am making to you to appease you, but I swear upon my life-"

"No."

"What?"

"Not your life Sherlock, you have shown me how much you don't care about your own life."

Sherlock sighs before nodding, his shoulders relaxing when he sees the relieved smile on John's face.

"Fine, then whose life shall I swear it on?"

"On someone who you can't live without or care for the most."

"...I swear John, I swear on your life I shall do so."

Sherlock waits for an answer anxiously, clearly not expecting what happens next.

Still shaking hands wind into his hair, pulling his mouth the short three inches to John's, their chests molding together. Green eyes fly open, meeting steely blue, before melting and closing.

Later, as the sun comes up in London, Sherlock murmurs something to the blond head laying on his chest directly over his heart. And for the first time since Sherlock had left, John huffs a quiet laugh.

The two lie in bed together, their arms and legs entangled, blissful as one cards his hands through short hair and the other grounds himself on the body next to him.

Mrs. Hudson does not find out Sherlock has returned until she comes to check on John three days later, only to see both of them sleeping in John's room. Let's just say they had a rude awakening.


End file.
